Azure's Soul
by Lock Scott
Summary: "Who is Azure Nevar?" Its a question that he cannot answer. his dreams are plagued with nightmares, memories and visions? Zelka Forn, a doctor from the upper cities of Taris has smuggled him from a crashed escape pod and tended to the amnesiacs wounds. The planet Taris is on global lock down, the Sith want him dead or alive and they would prefer the former. revan/mission romance
1. Chapter 1: The Depths of Sanity

Chapter 1: The Depths of Sanity

The wind lashes against his face, the hood of his cloak whips and cracks around him.

The wonderer stumbles on in the dark, against what he cannot tell but that was becoming much more prevalent the farther he ventured, to him this was yet another impediment slowing the progress of an important matter.. The void seems almost tangible as if you could reach out and pull it down; like curtains on a stage.

He increases his pace, desperate to be somewhere, to make it in time only to stumble again. This time

losing his footing the elements where successful. *Crunch*, the ground felt as if it where covered in wet tightly packed snow.

This place possessed an unnatural quality, he burned on the inside,

while his skin remained cool.

The man growled and heaved himself up, the conditions he must meet where growing far too repetitive,

This was important

he had to make it before everything comes to a close without him, failure would prove to have disastrous consequence.

Failure, it just wasn't on the table. It was cruel for a man who could press on through any problem from nothing more than his wit and unmatched determination to only fail miserably when it actually mattered, like some great cosmic joke. Fate was being cruel.

A voice spoke breaking the silence; "Do you even know where we are?" It posed a curious question,

somehow the details seemed almost irrelevant.

His pace slowed and the void turned to mist, revealing outlines of a barren land.

This time it was his own voice "Where am I, how did I get here?" The fog cleared, the world around him looked cold and barren. As the ground began to silently quake, jagged rocks and mountains jutted from the ground, as if molded from lightning.

"This isn't real, I'm dreaming..." A cold chuckle vibrated the air around him, chills run through his spine.

"Far more real than you." An accusation rather than a statement?

"Where are you? Come out." He spoke at a whisper, far quieter than he had intended. The wonderer scanned his surroundings from shoulder to shoulder.

There was nothing but mountains, rocks and ice.

"Where am I? Why, Im right here." Mused the voice which seemed to emanate from under his feet.

This realization came as a shock, the wonderer was standing on what looked like

a lake every star in the sky reflecting perfectly without a single ripple.

But it wasn't what the wonderer could see that concerned him its what he couldn't.

His reflection was missing, in its place a shrouded figure emerged, as if fromed from ink.

"More real than me?" He replies.

"Do not struggle." As if awaiting its que the sound of blaster fire pierced the silent night air, cable cords shoot up from under the lake, wrapping themselves around his neck and waist, all before he could even process what was happening he falls face first.

"Why?!" My words surface choked and automatic, like someone was speaking them for me.

I could hear my throat crackle under the strain of trying to speak through the bindings.

Looking ahead, my face pressed hard against the icy surface, my eyes where fixed as if tranced from the sudden shock of the situation.

I laid there like a fish held down on a butchers table, my rhythmic breaths turn to vapor before me.

The dead silence was short lived as

I begin to hear the silent echoes of thunder in the distance. The noise draws closer, like the sound of snapping bone. My gaze fixed, I cannot summon the will to investigate. Complete terror of this... mysterious stranger, holds a grip on my focus so profound that nothing else matters.

The sound of cracking and popping grows near, racing towards me. Ice begins crack as I plummet into the water below, I suck in the arctic air as fast as my lungs could manage. "I'm just taking back whats mine." Its voice now guttural. I begin to thrash violently as I make my decent, chunks of ice turn to clear shards; every piece reflecting or perhaps containing an image, as if each where windows to another place and time.

"Don't struggle, you're only making this harder for yourself."

As I begin to plummet further down I reach out, hopeful to grab a passing shard, perhaps hoping that one of these... fragments

might do something, anything. I reach and miss, they always remain just out of reach.

I try, again and again I try. The bindings grow more violent, drawing me ever closer to the shrouded figure, I can now make out its yellow eyes. "It", an adequate description.

My attempts grow frantic, I'm no longer sure if I can even see what I'm doing, my mined goes blank, as if fear has gripped all my senses.

Success! I grasp a shard into my hand, digging it into my palm, releasing blood into the water above. I'm holding tight, as if it where an object for prayer, perhaps I was praying.

Corridors begin to construct themselves around me, as if it where a spell forged from my own blood.

Lights begin to flicker on then off.

I proceed down the narrow halls of what seems like a sunken ship. My long tattered robes and

unkempt hair flowing and swaying behind me.

I make my way down in a half run and swim, with my arms cutting at the water around me, in an attempt to increase my decent. It never occurred to me why I was moving down or that I hadn't even run out of air yet.

All the water begins to drain out as the hulls mend themselves, the floor gently levels off.

A memory, my actions predetermined, my conscious falls once again into a stupor.

I remember shots from blaster rifles whistling past my ears, only slightly deflected by my shields with a nasty hiss. I remember explosions so fierce they would shake the floor beneath me, for a moment I thought I had gone deaf.

Everything fades to black.

Now I limp on through the narrow corridors, I can remember vague whispers; pleads for help, but I do not know who it is, I don't know if they're

people trapped in their bunkers or if its the person I'm carrying in my arm, I wonder who she is, my memory of her seems... faded.

The vibroblade in my main hand begins to glow and hum violently, as if content within the new hell that encompassed us both.

Everything begins to fade. I remember shock-waves rippling up my arm as I violently hammer my sword against that of a young man draped in black attire, he was fortunate, the brute force of that swing was more than powerful enough to cut him clean in two from almost any angle. However his fortune was short lived as I drive my blade into the hilt of his sword. Fingers part from their master, I drive in a successive third and final strike, the power and flurry of my attacks where far too great for a novice such as this.

I do not spare him a second glance. Somehow I didn't feel much pride in my success.

I remember people shouting equivocal commands and finally as the dream ends, I hear someone speaking; "hurry, get everyone in the escape pods, ill hold em off!"

Next comes the hiss of automatic doors and the brief sensation of falling as the metal globe begins to part. I feel safe, I close my exhausted eyes; coated in blood. Was it mine or someone else's?

Do I even care? My job here was done.

The wonderer closed his eyes, diem rays of light of various colors illuminate his sharp yet masculine features. His face and long dark brown hair coated in both dry and fresh blood from who knows how many adversaries.

His every muscle ached, skin cut and burnt in various places, his leg throbbed from a fractured shin. His head lolled from side to side as a result of occasional rattling of the pod. Nothing

could be important enough for him to get up and push on, not even his own life.

After all the countless cannon fodder that he had managed to cut through,

If he died than at least he would go in his sleep and it would be at the hands of a broken down pod as apposed to some sniveling novice hoping to make him a notch in his belt.

One way or the other he was finished.

Or was he...


	2. Chapter 2: In Bleeding Hands

Chapter 2: In Bleeding Hands

The travelers pod remains silent, the outline of his figure barely visible between the flashes of the emergency lights.

He lies in a pool of his own blood; his mind stirring.

For him the world has stopped, everything up to the moment is a blur.

'Its cold'.

He hears a girl screaming for her father.

By his side, his hand begins to twitch for something. His consciousness fades.

Its cold- my bodies numb and I'm exhausted.

Where am I, how did I get here? Tho dulled, I rack my mind for answers.

There was fighting, and Sith- they where slaughtering people. Was I fighting?

The room looks small, like a sort of cell. The lights flicker red, casting an eerie setting.

I'm resting in a puddle that, in this light, almost looks like blood. Heh, theres too much of it for there to

be blood. Right?

My vision fades, It feels like I'm falling, slow and gentle, it almost feels as if I'm being taken. I resign from my quest for answers, perhaps

Ill remember more once I'm rested.

The welcomed silence was broken by a scream, a woman perhaps.

My eyes snap open, tho I can no longer see, I strain to focus on my vision. I try reaching for my pistol, but my body doesn't seem to respond. Damn.

The sounds grow lauder, drawing near.

The room begins to shake as I push myself to move.

Ill die if I stay here- probably others too.

"Whats happening to him!?"

The panicked voice belonged to a young girl, clasping the short sleeves of her coat.

"Convulsions, hes going into shock..."

The world, lights, colors, and sound begins to fade in and out, assaulting his senses as he struggles against himself for control.

"Fine, quick, get me my bags!"

The second voice was deep, it could have easily given the impression that the person it belonged to usually spoke in a low and serious tone.

He struggles against himself when suddenly

warmth spreads throughout his body, relaxing his muscles and easing his mind. Once again he finds himself resigning to exhaustion.

It was late into the night and Zelka Forn was starting to feel his age.

At the moment, the room possessed four sources of light, which dimly illumined the hidden bunker.

Zelka sank into his favorite study chair, staring on at the four occupied bacta tanks and let out a quiet sigh of defeat. Zelka had no idea how long he could keep up the charade. 'Which will run out first I wonder,

the supplies, or my luck.'

Dealing in the black market only added to his stress. The notion of trading with pirates would have been a comical absurdity when he was younger, but those days of naivety where long gone. In his generation alone, Taris had undergone many changes over the 60 plus years and now that the Sith have settled in, its like a plague of apathy, hate, and violence has corroded the minds of Taris.

There had always been a class separation amongst the citizens, but now its as if everyones sanity is slowly eroding.

Escalation in kidnapings, murder, rape, and slavery has grown exponentially since.

Many days he would find himself doing nothing but checking his watch and worrying for hours at a time over the safety of his own daughter, who would often run off to the lower cities for exploration, many times she would comeback with something of value and on more than a few occasions it had saved them from being tossed into the streets- or worse.

A tear ran down his cheek making its way through his facial stubble.

Everything he had once stood for had all but been compromised, he was not the man

he had once envisioned himself to someday be. He wasn't making a difference in the world, he has had to regularly compromise his own moral beliefs and values; and worst still, he could hardly provide for himself and his own daughter. Was it even right for him to still try and provide for these- already dead men? In the end, all he could even do was ensure them a more comfortable demise. What kind of humanitarian am I supposed to be?

As if in response one of the bacta tanks let out a silent musical chime. The tanks meter, marked simply as 'Patient #3' had risen from red to orange.

The scarred one. "Huh, I had already written you off as a dead man, had Mission not begged me, Id have left you in that pod. Please, don't hold it against me, its just that at the time it would have seemed far more merciful.. and I have my own debts to worry with, if I cant pay them, someone might take my girl from me. In this world, they would probably sell her on the black market".

The tears began streaming.

Zelka traced a finger down the tank, following a chemically sealed wound that ran from his shoulder to his hip. That must be one hell of a determination.  
Even then, it looked like he was trying to draw his blaster. In that condition? Never mind being conscious, he shouldn't have even been alive, that faulty pod had mangled nearly his entire body.

The only thing holding him together at this point are medkits. If you've come this far-

"I suppose I could help keep your body together, but the rest is going to be entirely up to you".

No response. Of course he hadn't expected one, but perhaps he was waiting for a sign, holding out

for hope. Praying that maybe he would have a reason to believe that he was doing the right thing and not simply waisting precious credits. He was losing faith, fighting against a tide of blood and madness.

"Then its decided, whether or not I drown in this tide, rests solely in your hands, Number 3".

He straitens his posture, wipes the moisture from his face and walks out the room with a determined and reinvigorated gait.

* * *

*Writers note* Hes saying that whether or not he proceeds as a humanitarian will be determined solely on whether or not "Number 3" can overcome his own odds and survive.

Im sorry for the late release, but at least its still a thousand words. Thats good, right?... Hmm.

Well, I suppose I would rather have a bad release schedule than a poorly written story. Poor by my own standards anyway and

Im trying to improve my own writing quality. Just going to have to read more books I suppose.

Also, Im killing my walking dead fanfic (lol)

I just dont think I can put the quality I want into it without taking from this and this is a story ive been wanting to

write for a very long time now. So yeah, im kind of passionate about this and I think that will show

in how much care im going to try and put into each character.

just be warned that this story "will" be going off the rails.

certain past events may have never happened or something something thats supposed to happen might unravel completely different to

what weve seen in the games and books.

If things go well, then I intend to write two other stories that will have a direct connection to this, however the final story wont directly revolve around revan. sorry, I cant really say much more.

Also, i just discovered final fantasy 7... awesome. Heh, nah, ive obviously heard of it, its just a friend has given me his copy and its actually pretty cool, so ill try and not let that take up too much of my time.


End file.
